May Tomorrow
by Little Redwood
Summary: Mike's grandmother could not be contacted when his parents died. Thrown into the Foster care system, Harvey ends up with Mike when he had no other place to go. The lawyer is clueless when it comes to caring for the quirky eleven year old. But he may soon find out that he won't be doing all the caring. Harvey/Mike Father/Son.
1. Cracks

**Hey! I'm Imaybesomeone, and this is my first suits fic. I'm in love with this fandom, and I really think this will end up being a good story. Hopefully. I've never had much good luck when it comes to my feedback. **

**Anyways, this will be the prologue to a very long story. Expect steady updates with a few late ones. One to two a week sounds manageable, right? I sure hope so, because school starts in a few weeks and I sure as hell don't want to promise anything more than that if it means less time for my school shit.**

**Summary: Mike's grandmother could not be contacted when his parents died. Shipped off to a boys home, he was found my Harvey when his reputation called for extreme actions. The lawyer is clueless when it comes to caring for the quirky eleven year old. But he may soon find out that he won't be doing all the caring. **

**Warnings: there may be some slash. Nothing with Harvey/Mike (although I do have another story where that's the main pairing. It's in production at the moment). If you don't want me to add it, let me know and I won't. Nothing in this prologue, but there will be gore in the next one, and some dark themes. I mean, this is my take on mike after the accident. Lemme do what I want. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own it. If I did, shit would go down. So, USA shouldn't sue me. Because as much as I love to load the characters. I don't want to buy them.**

**I have no beta at the moment. If you wanrt to beta this, PM me, PLEASE! Anyways, I love you all. J**

**Anyways, here you go!**

**.**

**{}Chapter 0{}**

**Cracks**

**{}Start{}**

There was a four inch crack on the ceiling. It was thin, like the hairline fracture in the boy's right arm. It began in the upper right hand corner, next to the splotch of rust on the metal frame holding the tiles in place, and ended to the left, as if it were a river, trying to make its way downstream. Two tiles down, one of the three lights flickered, the dull light doing little but irritate the boy who lay still atop of the white sheets covering the metal hospital bed. His eyes flickered back to the crack. It marred the perfection of the ceiling, breaking the once smooth white surface that greeted awakening patients.

Oh, how he hated that crack.

His eyes would flutter shut as he prepared himself for a restless night, his blonde eyelashes spreading across his cheeks, catching on the bandage that was neatly taped in place below his right eye. If the discomfort from the skin irritating bandage wasn't enough, all he could see when he attempted to succumb himself into darkness was the four inch crack, breaking through the Styrofoam ceiling tile above his head, next to the spot of rust, and two tiles down from the flickering light.

He tried to tell his doctors. He told them his room was dangerous. The ceiling might cave in on him, and the light was going to break and catch fire. He _tried._ He nearly pleaded with the irritable nurses. He wanted to leave the white room, forget about the flickering light and the smudge of rust. And most of all, he wanted to forget the crack that scarred the tile right above his head.

It couldn't happen. It wouldn't. He would never forget about the damned crack. You could approach the boy fifty years from now and inquire as to how long the crack in the ceiling was on July 5th, 2001. Without pausing to think, he would reply, "Exactly four inches long, starting next to the small rusty spot on the metal frame, two tiles away from the light that never stopped flickering."

Unfortunately for the eleven year old boy, the crack in the ceiling was a mere distraction. In order to avoid the horrid feeling of guilt that flooded his stomach every time his mind wandered to the pain in his body, he thought of nothing but the four inch crack in the ceiling above his head. He needed to. As much as it drove him into insanity.

Every so often, a nurse would walk into the room to fiddle with the long needle that pumped liquids into his body, or to change the pus laden gauze. He hated the gauze. It stuck to his skin, peeling off the scabs and crust that kept his wound protected from the chafing fabric. He hated when the nurses said it wasn't that painful when they pulled the smelly bandages off. They were wrong. . The pain was horrid. It was like pouring hot wax over your arm, then pulling it off, with your skin dangling limply from the hardening liquid. It was painful. He was one to know, he had nearly lost his legs less than a week ago.

He hated their 'pleasant' voices. He hated how they cheerfully disposed of his nasty bandages in the dark red container to the right of the sink that never stopped dripping. He could read you the safety rules and hazards off of the red box without looking at it. He didn't' pay attention to it though, the pain was disposed of there.

Their voices grated against his ears like nails across a chalkboard, "Wow! Look at how brave you are! Such a great patient, I'm so proud of you! You'll be out of here in no time!"

Out of here, yes, it was to be expected. Very few people live in a hospital. The real question is where exactly he was going to go. Where would he go, now that the parents he loathed from the bottom of his heart were rotting in hell? Where would he go, now that his grandmother was deemed incapable of caring for him? Would his aunt take him? No, of course not. She had two kids, both of which here 'smarter and stronger' than him. He nearly scoffed at the thought of his pudgy cousins. There was no way in heaven or hell he would go live in that smelly house. He would rather not catch whatever the filthy swine carried. The same went for a boy's home. He never got along with others. He was as antisocial as they come. Children his age were incompetent, in his book. He had never done anything wrong, criminal-wise, so they wouldn't send him to that torturous facility. Not yet, at least.

A foster home it was, then. A home where he would have to smile and act brave, in spite of the leg brace that would be holding his leg in place, and the black cast that reached just below his elbow. In spite of the emotional trauma he was going through. He would smile as he remembered. Remembered the drops of blood that hit his forehead as his mother bled on him, her disemboweled corpse starting to smell as he waited for more than a day in the humid car, his leg crushed under his father's seat. He would have to avoid the stares as his face healed, the wounds stitched together like Frankenstein's monster. Just two more days and he was leaving one hell to head for another. But he couldn't focus on that now. The door had croaked open, the rusty hinges creaking together like nails along an old chalkboard.

The social worker was ugly.

The moment you look at her, she looks decent, but then you really take a good look. She had no chin, it was as if someone had taken an ice cream scoop and just scooped it off. Her nose was long and slightly crooked, covered in blackheads and oil. Her eyes were a pretty blue, but hazy. As if she was a shell of her former self.

She probably was.

Her name was Allie. Allie Shapiro. She asked the boy plenty of useless questions. Favorite book (Utopia, by Sir Thomas More), favorite color (dark red, like the container they stuffed his needles and gauze into), and what he wanted to be when he grew up. As soon as she figured he had warmed up to her (or gave up trying to get him comfortable), she started asking real questions. She asked about the accident ("They were sober, but my father was angry at me. He was yelling."), then asked about his treatment at home, ("I'm alive. That's all there is to it). Eventually, she left, a frown etched into her homely face.

It upset the boy. He didn't want to be alone again. He wanted to keep talking to the hideous lady. He wanted someone to take his mind off of everything. He needed her to keep talking. He _craved_ the attention she had just given him. He needed more. He didn't care from whom. He just needed someone. Someone to keep him occupied, his mind stimulated. The more he was stimulated, the less of a chance he had of growing distracted and thinking about things he didn't want to think of.

There was no angel there to save him, though. Soon, he succumbed to his thoughts. The horrible fight he had with his parents and the horrible crack in the ceiling. The one four inches long that sat by the spot of rust, two tiles away from the light that seemed to never stop flickering.

**{}END{}**

**Alright, this is pathetically short. I promise a chapter of 4,000 words next time! Pinky promise! Anyways, I want at least two reviews before I update. I love it when people appreciate my work. This is shit, but hopefully the next chapter will show you all I'm not totally hopeless!**


	2. Questions

**Alright, I really don't want any criticism involving my kooky timeline. This takes place in 2001. Which means that Mike would be 17 in the 5 year flashback episode, which is obviously not true. So, here's what's going to happen. We're all going to pretend 2001 was a little more than 11 years ago. How about 16 or 17 years ago. Yeah, how about we split a couple years up into two, so we can have an accurate timeline. I would push the time back a little further, but I wanted 2001 for a reason. A lot of you Americans know where I'm going with that. Yes, I'm that horrible. You'll all forgive me, because I'm going to make that certain scene a really big turning point in their relationship. Anyways, forgive the time fart.**

**A ginormous thanks to Alice for making my chapter pretty. You all need to marry her. She's the best wife ever. **

**Also, I want to thank Selvet for betaing my work, as well as stetsonblack for helping me through some of my writers block. They both are amazing. Thank you so much. **

**So now that my Grammy acceptance speech is over and done with, I can tell you I fulfilled my promise. 4,000 words. The next chapter will probably longer. Not shorter, though. **

**Summary: Mike's grandmother could not be contacted when his parents died. Shipped off to a boys home, he was found my Harvey when his reputation called for extreme actions. The lawyer is clueless when it comes to caring for the quirky eleven year old. But he may soon find out that he won't be doing all the caring. **

**Warnings: there may be some slash. Nothing with Harvey/Mike (although I do have another story where that's the main pairing. It's in production at the moment). If you don't want me to add it, let me know and I won't. Nothing in this prologue, but there will be gore in the next one, and some dark themes. I mean, this is my take on mike after the accident. Lemme do what I want. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own it. If I did, shit would go down. So, USA shouldn't sue me. Because as much as I love to loan the characters, I don't want to buy them.**

**Thanks to an anon for pointing out a spelling fart in the summary. Really embarrassed. It's fixed now. I'm also putting a poll up, so I know how many want slash and how many don't. PLEASE, go to my profile and post your answer. Whatever the answer it, that's the way the story is going. I have the entire story planned out for each answer.**

**Wow... I didn't expect such a positive feedback on my story. I was shocked. _16 reviews and over 40 followers_. It's... I can't even describe how happy that made me. As I said in the first chapter, A lot of my work doesn't get good reviews, so this really meant a lot to me. I responded to every one of you privately (because answering on the actual story is pointless) thanking you and answering any questions you had. You all made my year! I hope for at least three reviews for this chapter! **

**Now, I won't annoy the hell out of you any longer, on with the chapter.**

**(No Harvey in this one. Next one is all him though.)**

**{}-Chapter One-{}**

**Questions**

**{}-Start-{}**

**...**

Creaking was one of the most irritating sounds in the world. It was maddening, nearly painful. The sound of two metal joints rubbing together with each step he took made the petite, fair-haired boy wince painfully. He was sore. His head ached, his arm throbbed, and his leg burned. The horrid screech that echoed with each labored step he took made him cringe. The beating in his head soon morphed into a painful pounding. He had no solution for the damned metal support, and didn't dare ask the nurses for one. They were too incompetent to give him a working brace in the first place.

There were two hours left until he was released into the custody of Emily and Mark Reese. Two hours until he was free; free from the horrendous white room, with antiseptic stained floors that burned his nose constantly. Free from the nurses that plastered smiles on their faces and pretended they could tolerate his company for the few moments they shared each day. Free from the damned needle that they stuck into his arm every night, feeding him pain medication that made him numb. Dead from his body and his mind. Numbness he could do nothing but endure.

He was ready to leave at that very moment. They had fitted him with the brace, an awkward splint-like device that connected to the pins and plates that held his destroyed bone in place, and told him the only way to get used to it was to walk with it. He obliged quickly, standing with the help of the bulky metal brace that now held his shattered leg in place, pins entering the skin around his shin and ankle, keeping the smaller bones in place as the metal contraption did its work. The crutches they gave him were nearly as painful as his throbbing arm. They did little to help him walk, considering his knee has such limited movement, but they kept him from leaning on the nurse. Anything was better than that.

The pudgy nurse that held onto his arm stopped abruptly as a stretcher wheeled past them, making him jolt suddenly, the bands on his metal brace digging into what little muscle he had on the long limb. He would have yelped, had he been alone. But instead, he dug his front teeth into his lower lip, nearly gagging when the taste of blood seeped into his mouth. The coppery substance spread like acid across his taste buds, metallic and sickening. Steely eyes darted over to her, his icy orbs boring into her dark brown ones with anger. She apologized hastily, slapping on yet another fake smile too sugary to hold any truth within. Mike narrowed his eyes.

_That bitch isn't sorry._

They passed his old hospital room. Peeking in, he caught sight of a small girl. Red eyed and runny nosed, her arm was being wrapped tightly in a bright pink cast. He looked down at his black one, then back at her. Their eyes met for a brief second, before the nurse rushed him along to yet another room. Plain and white, like every other one in the building. A metal table was in the center surrounded by four uncomfortable looking chairs. He had been in one before, when his grandfather died. A woman sat at the far corner. Mrs. Shapiro, the social worker he'd met earlier. The nurse helped him to the chair before grabbing his crutches and setting them to the side. He stretched his leg out, sitting uncomfortably on the chair. There was little to no cushioning on the seat, making it brutally hard against his backside. The woman didn't look up from her clipboard, but did smile.

"Hello, my name is Allison Shapiro. We met once before, in case you didn't remember."

He did.

"Before you leave, we have to ask you a few questions. Some of them might be obvious, but you have to try to answer all of them truthfully, can you do that, buddy?"

"Don't patronize me, Mrs. Shapiro."

"Oh," she looked up at the boy for the first time, pausing. His eyes held none of the innocence she usually saw in an eleven year old boy. He spoke as if she were he was the same age as her. For a second, she debated what to say. "I apologize. Shall we begin?"

He waved his hand in the air, gesturing for her to begin her questions. He let his eyes wander every contour of the room: the white spackled walls, the painting of an orchid on the far partition. The table was clean, save for a small dent by his left pointer finger. He ran his nail across it a few times, before looking down at the desk, eyeing the silver engraved pen by her folder.

"Name?"

"Michael James Ross."

"Date of birth?"

"January 23rd."

"Alright, good. Tell me, where are we right now?"

Icy blue clashed with ruddy brown.

"How would you describe the situation we're in?"

"Unfavorable."

Scribbling echoed through the space. The clock ticked – the metronomic sound in rhythm with the jotting. His foot started to tap, the repetitive motion shaking the chair slightly. The legs creaked, like the brace had earlier that day. The fan shook, the long string connected to the metal base swaying as if it were a conductor in front of violins, violas and all those instruments that strum. He nearly smiled; he had himself an orchestra. A symphony of noises nobody but himself would take notice of. He closed his eyes, honing in on the groaning, whooshing, and ticking. The music drew him in, wrapping around him like a blanket. He was focused, he was safe. Nobody could interrupt him now that he was listening to his music.

"Michael?"

The music stopped.

"Hm?" the boy leaned back, looking down at the table once more.

She sighed, "Please pay attention."

A raised eyebrow. She hadn't noticed he had snatched her silver pen off of the desk until she reached down to grab it. Looking at the boy for a solid ten seconds, she bit back a groan. Shifting through her purse, she grabbed a cheap looking pencil from her bag and began to write once more, "Have you been energized, elated, happy, or out of control lately?"

"Oh, Mrs. Shapiro!" He leaned forward, his words dripping with sarcasm, "I'm just this big bundle of happiness and joy. Once we're done here I'm going to grab my mystical Pegasus and fly through the world spreading pleasure and bliss."

She snorted, trying to contain her laughter, "Let's be serious, Michael." She looked up at him, watching his movements. His right pointer finger was scratching at the metal table loudly while his other hand was flipping her yellow writing utensil. His eyes never stayed in once place, darting to every corner of the room, but never at her face. She swiveled the pencil in her hand, leaning forward slightly, "Try to keep the sarcasm at bay. I like you. I don't want you to be shipped off to some facility where you won't have a chance of living a relatively normal life. I'm sure you know about patient confidentiality. I won't tell anyone anything unless you're a harm to others or yourself. _Now_, what do you think of when you're angry or upset?"

Michael huffed, weighing his options. Either give her the bare minimum and go into a failing foster care system or spend the rest of his childhood sharing a room with eight boys who would make his life Hell on Earth.

"Did you know that only 54% of children in the foster care system graduate high school? Only two percent actually graduate from college. 25% of foster kids are homeless when they age out of the system, and 84% have their own kids before 24, exposing them to low income childhoods and repeating the cycle of neglect and abuse over and over again. Tell me, Mrs. Shapiro, how do you suppose the foster care system is better than a state facility?"

She looked up from her board, her pen stopped, "Because everyone deserves a childhood, Michael. You're smart. I can tell just by looking at you, never mind your file. You won't be in those statistics."

Silence.

"I think about everything when I'm upset. I get mad, and say things I know I shouldn't_. _I've ended up in the hospital once for it. November 13th, '98. Remember? You should, it was in my file." The words escaped him airily, like he was discussing the weather. Allison leaned forward a little more, her eyes looking over the boy. His vision was once again focused on anything but her own.

"Are you scared or worried about something?"

"Nope."

"Do you have any beliefs that aren't shared by others?"

"Well, I think Amelia Eairheart is playing poker in the Atlantic with Kennedy and Lincoln, does that count?"

"Michael."

"No, nothing of extreme importance."

"Have you been feeling depressed, sad or moody lately?"

Mike let out a dry laugh, leaning back as far as he could, the silver back of the chair chilling his skin through the thin shirt he had on. Looking over to the woman, he smiled. The sickly sweet gesture made her shudder. From the exaggerated cheek movements to the taught lower lip, his smile was anything but genuine. He knew exactly what that smile looked like – as did she. They both knew the meaning. It was the smile of liars, thieves, and cheats. It was the scapegoat for any situation. The boy played the part well, but it was only natural. His eyes flickered to the door where a nurse was sure to be waiting.

He learned from the best, after all.

"I said I'm fine, Mrs. Shapiro."

She narrowed her eyes and tucked a greasy lock of hair behind her ear, clearing her throat. Her pencil scribbled a mile a minute, the bright body of the device blurring with speed. The yellow paint clashed with her purple acrylics as she scribbled down some more, the scratching sound of a pencil much more irritating than the scrawling of a good pen. He snatched the silver rod from the table again and flipped it over his thumb. The gray blurred again as he did so, waiting for her to finish writing. Growing frustrated, he looked over at her, his eyes narrowed, "Planning on writing a novel about me, Shapiro?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Ross. You're not that interesting."

Double blink.

Lie.

With a smirk, he crossed his arms, dropping the pen into his lap.

"Now," she put her pencil down, looking back up at the bored teenager, "Tell me, what's been on your mind, lately?"

_Everything._

"Oh, is this a slumber party?" Mike quipped, "Are we going to share our innermost thoughts and feelings? I won't share a bed with you, though. The one I've been using is too small for me."

Ignoring the jab, she continued on, "Has there been any sort of thought or image that you can't get out of your head?"

_I hate you._

"Nothing of significance."

"Alright," she scribbled something down again.

"I will recite a series of numbers to you, and then I will ask you to repeat them to me, first forwards, and then backwards."

"Shoot," the boy flipped his pen once more, the simple movement quickening as their conversation progressed.

"3, 6, 13, 45, 100, 56, 17, 89, 44, 34, 78, 122, 78, 33, 234, 1344, 7," she looked down at her sheet, ready to check off the numbers she had just scrawled on her sheet.

He answered perfectly, forwards, then backwards, then forwards again. He flipped his pen as he did so, now flipping it over his pointer finger. She spouted off another stream of numbers, pleased when he repeated them perfectly, with no falter. She then asked him to recite the first series. He did so perfectly. She looked through the questions on her sheet, skipping the ones she knew he wouldn't answer.

"Tell me about the accident."

The pen dropped from Mike's fingers, hitting the table with a loud _clang._ Recovering as quickly as he could, Allison heard his brace squeak under his table, a sign he was growing uncomfortable. He leaned forward once more, a smirk etching its way onto his pink lips, "I didn't wet my bed, did I?"

"Michael, you need to answer this question. I've been lenient with you, but this is a question you need to answer truthfully," her voice was void of its usual exasperation. Now, it was flat, like an unturned piano. Her eyes were slightly narrowed and her lips were pursed. How dull.

Mike paused, not knowing if he should lie once more. Deciding against it, he leaned back, looking down at the tabletop, his façade beginning to falter.

_ "You little bitch!"_

_Michael flinched, clutching at the leather beneath him. The sound of his mother's sobs echoed through the car. It was hard to ignore the pleading and screaming coming from the front seat. The hurtful words thrown at his mother circled around him, torturing his mind as he tried to drown them out. He hummed softly to himself, and eventually, pulled his knees to his chest, sobbing into them softly. Rain pelted against the windshield, the roar of the engine drowned out by the torrential downfall. He sniffled as he tried to ignore the insults shot at him and his mother. _

_"Shut your son up!" his father growled, fury evident in his tone, "He's nothing but a coward. D'you lie about him, too? Is he my kid? I mean, look at him, he doesn't look like me!"_

_Mike looked up, his eyes wide with fear. His mother sobbed quietly, looking over at him, "It's alright, sweetie, just go to sleep, we'll be home soon."_

_He nodded, his pale lips trembling. He watched as his mother turned her sharp blue eyes over to his father, "Don't bring him into this, James. He's done nothing wrong; he's just a child."_

_"Thirteen years, Elizabeth. Thirteen goddamn years. How the hell do I know he's my kid? He's not, is he?! He's a goddamn lie, too! I treated him as if he were my own flesh and blood! You fucking liar!"_

_Mike flinched at the word, curling into himself more and letting out a loud sob. His father turned around, taking his eyes off of the road. Elizabeth let out a cry of terror and grabbed onto the steering wheel. He rapped his knuckles across Mikes exposed leg, his eyes bloodshot, "Shut your mouth, before I shut it for you. God, you little bastard. I should have known." _

_He laughed hoarsely for a moment, stopping the car in the middle of the road. He reached over to his wife, his fist grabbing at her shirt. He pulled her close, her face inches from his. He started screaming, his voice gruff and unintelligible. Elizabeth cried out, begging for him to start the car again. Her cries soon grew silent as she ran out of oxygen. Her mouth remained agape as she leaned over, her chest constricting as she attempted to regain composure. James pulled her back up by her hair, the messy bun it was in coming undone. Long red tendrils danced down her back and around her face. Her husband pulled her face up and pulled his free hand around, ready to hit her. Mike leapt forward, glad he hadn't unbuckled his seatbelt when he entered the car. He grabbed his father's wrist, shocking him out of his rage. He growled, letting go of his wife, grabbing Mike by the neck instead. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, bruising the skin around them and breaking the small blood vessels directly beneath. _

_"Don't hit her," he spoke clearly, in spite of the fear obvious on his face, "I don't care what you do to me, but do not hit my mother."_

_James Ross cackled, the sound sending shivers down both Mike and Elizabeth's spines. It sounded crazed, on the edge of hysteria. Michael met his father's gaze once he was composed._

_"And if I do? Pray tell me. What will you do?"_

_Mike just narrowed his eyes, nothing but abhorrence evident in the bloodshot orbs, "I hate you."_

_The man smiled, however, pushing his 'beloved' son back into the leather seats he was sobbing on before. He garbled a few curse words before starting the car once more. _

_Silence ensued. _

_Not the comfortable silences that soothed you and let your mind wander without interruption. Or the calm between two lovers, where they had so much to say, but only had to speak between careful eye contact and gentle touches. Not even the horrid stillness shared when there was nothing to talk about. This silence was composed of nothing but fear and hatred. The engine roar was silent in his ears. The rain was nothing but a whisper. There was nothing but ignored words hanging in the cold air. Apologies and lies. Fear and hate. Terror and utter revulsion. _

_This silence was perfidious._

_The silence remained unbroken until the sound of screeching echoed through Mike's ears. Everything went black for a moment as he felt himself flung around the car like a rag doll. He had never wished he was wearing a seatbelt before, but he was at that moment. It wasn't until he felt the pain in his leg that he realized how bad the accident had really been. Horror built up inside of him as he strained to hear some sort of noise, any sign that he wasn't alone. But once again, there was only a dreadful silence._

"My father died on impact. His head was filled with glass and metal. It was quite bloody. My mother was alive, though. She was unconscious, bleeding a little. The car hit the side, that's how I got stuck; the door crunched like a paper bag and trapped my leg under it."

He fingered the top of the metal brace, the rods digging into the skin on his thigh. He sighed, knowing he would go through more meetings like this damn one because of what he had said. Begrudgingly, he shrugged, looking up at her, "I was stuck there for six hours. They had to get my mother and father out first. My mother was in critical condition. She was DOA. Bleeding in the brain."

Allison Shapiro looked at the boy, an unreadable expression on her face. She knew she had to report the obvious abuse to her superiors. She would hold it off as long as she could, though. It took him an hour to warm up to her, she didn't want to break that small smidge of trust they had developed over that time. She wrote his story down in shorthand, knowing there was already an official report on record, from a traffic cam that had picked up the entire incident. Looking through the questionnaire once more, she smiled softly, looking over to the boy.

"Well Michael, it seems as though we've reached the end of our conversation. I just have a few more questions. Try and interpret these sayings, alright?"

Mike showed no indication he had heard her.

"People living in glass houses should not throw stones."

"People shouldn't live in glass houses. It's stupid."

She raised an eyebrow, looking over the boy. She would have commented, but then realized; that was the exact answer an eight year old had told her a few weeks earlier. Hiding a smile, she continued, "What do you think of the phrase: two heads are better than one?"

Mike looked up, bitter eyes meeting the dull chocolate of Allison's eyes.

"I'd say it has proved true time and time again throughout history."

"And why would that be?"

He leaned forward, his hands grabbing the silver pen he had been flipping earlier. Without looking at her, he spoke.

"Isn't it obvious? Our society is ruled by men."

**...**

**{}-End-{}**

**The test Mike was being administered was the MSE. It's an exam given to patients who were in traumatic accidents. It tests mental functioning, and pretty much makes sure someone is sane before they send them off into the world. I cut about 90% of the test off, because it's very lengthy. So, I gave you the ghetto version. Hopefully you all don't mind.**

**Remember to vote! **

**Love you all! **

**Muah! **

**Imaynotbesomeone,**

** ~Imaybesomeone**


	3. Coffee

**An: I deserve your hate. I took so long to update this, even though I promised it on Tuesday. *Sigh* I'm not even going to tell you all why I was late. I'm just apologizing, because I know I have a lot of followers who had been waking for this chapter. **

**I've disappointed you with that, as well. Not my best writing. Not even at that good halfway part, but now I've got this story rolling, I won't stop. So from now on, I promise a chapter every Saturday, unless I have a debate tournament. Seeing as though I'm nationally ranked, I will be going to yale in a few weeks to compete. I do NOT want to worry about updating when I could be working on my debate piece.**

**Anyways, I'm sorry. But, as promised, HARVEY IS IN THIS CHAPTER. Yes, you can thank me later. Anyways, I put some banter in there, that ended up kind of cruel and just flat out rude. So, I apologize for my lack of friendly banter, but I'll get to that eventually. I don't want to warm up to anything just yet. **

**Remember to vote for slash/no slash on my profile! If you don't then I might take this in a way you don't want it to go. If it's too close to really make a lot of you happy, then I won't add any romance at all. **

**I NEED TO SAY THIS AGAIN: I really don't want any criticism involving my kooky timeline. This takes place in 2001. Which means that Mike would be 17 in the 5 year flashback episode, which is obviously not true. So, here's what's going to happen. We're all going to pretend 2001 was a little more than 11 years ago. How about 16 or 17 years ago. Yeah, how about we split a couple years up into two, so we can have an accurate timeline. I would push the time back a little further, but I wanted 2001 for a reason. A lot of you Americans know where I'm going with that. Yes, I'm that horrible. You'll all forgive me, because I'm going to make that certain scene a really big turning point in their relationship. Anyways, forgive the time fart.**

**Thanks to Stetsonblack for betaing this chapter for me. And for sitting through my 5 am rambles about mascot sex, and for helping me plan this story. And-and for helping me decide how to end this shit. Yeah, she deserves all of your love. Bow down to her. Do it.**

**Summary: Mike's grandmother could not be contacted when his parents died. Shipped off to a boys home, he was found my Harvey when his reputation called for extreme actions. The lawyer is clueless when it comes to caring for the quirky eleven year old. But he may soon find out that he won't be doing all the caring.**

**Warnings: there may be some slash. Nothing with Harvey/Mike (although I do have another story where that's the main pairing. It's in production at the moment). If you don't want me to add it, let me know and I won't. Nothing in this prologue, but there will be gore in the next one, and some dark themes. I mean, this is my take on mike after the accident. Let me do what I want.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own it. If I did, shit would go down. So, USA shouldn't sue me. Because as much as I love to loan the characters, I don't want to buy them.**

**Would it be too hard to ask for eight reviews? I got 15 last chapter! I LOVE YOU ALL!**

**And now, we begin.**

**A long time ago...**

**No**

**I will not be funny.**

**{}-Chapter Three-{}**

**Coffee**

**{}-Start-{}**

**...**

Mike never understood the draw of cats. They were loud, cruel, and hated the very floor they walked on. They thought they ruled the world, even though they couldn't tell the difference between a couch and a tree. The people who loved them were worse. They would baby the damn things until they knew they had their owners wrapped around their mange-infested paws. And soon, the pet/master relationship would turn 180 degrees. It was those types of people Mike thought needed children—some sort of entertainment to keep the cats at bay. Anything, really.

Emily and Mark Reese was that type of couple. In the few hours Mike had been with them, he had counted eight cats, none of which held even a slight resemblance to another. The horrid creatures pranced around their loft as if they owned it, and Mike couldn't walk ten feet without tripping over one of the pets. They were friendly at first; rubbing up against him and his stiff brace until their fur caught in between the straps, latches and joints. As they moved away, the sound of hair ripping from follicles would be drowned out by the horrid screeching that escaped the feline's mouths. It was when that happened when the cats all decided they hated Mike. He had the scratches to prove it.

It wasn't like he hated the Reeses. He just detested their cats. It wasn't just their discourteous, superior attitudes. No, he dealt with uptight people daily. A few pompous cats didn't bother him much. The majority of his abhorrence stemmed from the fact that they shed. _Everywhere. _He couldn't sit down on a couch without coating himself in a thick layer of coarse fur. And it wasn't as if he could wear a certain color to avoid the hair being noticeable. Their cats ranged from black, to white, to orange, to gray. No matter the color of his clothing, the fur was visible. The next few months were going to go by slowly.

He had been there for less than a day and he was already growing sick of the place. Despite the horrid felines, the Reeses were nice people. Rich, but hard working; they weren't the type born with a silver spoon in their mouths and caviar in their bottles. Judging by the array of papers and files tucked in every nook and cranny in the large apartment, Mike could tell they would be the type to work their asses off at work, and continue doing so the moment they came home, too. They seemed to care about Mike, to some degree. As he sat at the kitchen table with them and Mrs. Shapiro, he silently watched Emily cry as she learned of the wreck that took his parents' lives. It was quite pitiful.

The homely social worker had left quickly after shooting Mike a sharp look that obviously told him to behave. The moment she shut the door he was bombarded with a plethora of questions. Sitting at the bar with a can of soda in one hand and an apple in the other, he answered their questions as imprecisely as he could. He had to literally bite down on his tongue multiple times, in an attempt to keep a sarcastic quip at bay. He thought it best not to irritate the people who would be making his food for the next few months.

The blond-haired boy leaned down once more, pulling tufts of ginger hair off of his gym shorts, hissing when the loose material rubbed up against his newest cuts. It had just ceased its bleeding and now stood out against his pallid skin, a crisscross of swollen and red slashes. He'd deal with it later in the solitude of his new room, the one Mark was getting ready right now.

He sighed and reclined back against the black leather couch, *the hard cushion doing little to soothe his sore joints. _With as much money as they make, you'd figure they'd have enough money to buy a comfortable couch._

His bad leg was propped up to the side of him as he lounged, flipping absently through channels. He could walk easier on his leg now. After a recent surgery, the horribly repulsive pins were replaced with metal plates and screws and a long rod going down the entirety of his bone, now hidden beneath his skin. His brace was slighter, no longer looking like a device of torture. Instead, he had to make do with a long, thin surgical scar running down the length of his shin and knee, stitched with what seemed like the darkest, thickest stitches they could have used. Obvious as the healing wound was, he would choose it over the pins any day.

Huffing, Mike leaned back, the rigid padding reminding him of the metal chairs he was forced to sit in at the hospital. He shifted uncomfortably, making sure his brace didn't scratch up the flawless looking leather couch. He could practically hear Emily in the background, a scepter in one hand and a goblet in the other, shouting '_Off with his head!' _until she was purple in the face. Luckily, could hear Emily in the kitchen, the sound of a whisk batting against a metal bowl echoing softly over the television he had submitted himself to. He was safe, for now.

"_It's the ninja! With cutting edge technology, this blender will-"_

_"But Charles couldn't lie to his mom, so he did the on-"_

_"Pero Alfonso, Maria no puede sobrevivir sin usted!"_

"Emily," he called, his voice clear, "Is there a library near here?"

"There's one four blocks away. Do you need something for school? If so, we can bu-"

"I like the library, he replied simply, his tone neutral. "What street is it on? I'll walk there."

Emily entered the living room, wiping her wet hands on her jeans. Her brown eyes looked him over, an unsure expression plastered on her face. She was pretty, with long curly brown hair and tan skin. She wore conservative clothing, but enjoyed her wealth. Mike turned the TV off, nearly sighing with relief as the overly dramatic voices of Spanish actors suddenly ceased. Emily glanced at the now standing boy, still looking unsure.

"I'll be fine, Emily. We're in Manhattan. I won't get stabbed or anything," his voice was cold, his icy eyes looking fearlessly at her, as if he was daring her to argue.

"W-well. I suppose you'll be okay. There's some money in my wallet by the door. Take some money for a cab if your leg starts to bother you, okay? Go to the library and come right back, no shortcuts. I don't want you to get hurt... On second thought, I ought to come with yo-"

"Emily, let me be. I'll be alright. I know what I'm doing. If I get lost, I'll ask someone where I am. I know your address and I'm pretty sure I know how to get to the library. I'll take a cab if my leg bothers me, and I'll be home before the 'bad people' come out, alright?"

He hobbled off after receiving the directions, his brace keeping his movement limited. He finally made it to the door, grabbing the wallet off of the counter that sat *beside it*. Pulling a crisp fifty out, he smiled delicately at Emily, pleased when she seemed to melt at his timid gesture. It was a well-rehearsed gesticulation he hadn't used in a while. He would have grinned, had he not still been in character. He placed the wallet back on the table before limping out, shutting the door carefully as he heard Emily call out, "Be back by seven!"

The moment the knob clicked into place, he walked as swiftly as he could to the elevator. A man in a pressed suit watched him approach with curious eyes, before averting his gaze down to his blackberry. His brace creaked as he pressed the down button, ignoring the two women muttering a few feet away.

"_Poor boy."_

His eyes darted over to them, narrowing as they looked away, flushing. He detested women. Always getting into other people's business where they didn't belong. Their eyes shot to the ground as if their designer shoes had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. He rolled his eyes before leaning on his good leg, waiting for the elevator to arrive.

Luckily, he only waited but a minute more. The silver doors swung open, revealing the opulent interior of the elevator. Rich fabric lined the walls while the upper half of the wall parallel to the doors was a window, making the small place seem less claustrophobic. Mike limped into the niche, pleased when the women didn't follow him. _They must have been going up. _To his surprise the elevator reached the first floor in moments; about a minute and a half quicker than the elevator that he had used daily at his home. _Christ, even their elevators are high-class. God-damn 'one percent'._

He strode out quickly, avoiding the stares and glares he received as he pushed through the grandiose lobby. The upper class men and women who occupied the area frowned at his ratty gym shorts, and he could hear women and men alike whispering behind him, commenting on the wear-and-tear state of his shoes. He ignored them all, walking with his shoulders set and chest out. The metal of the door handle felt cool against his hands as he pushed the doorman aside, exiting the building unaided.

His walk was quiet. Moments after leaving the apartment building, he realized how much he liked Manhattan. There was no reason to walk around with a switchblade around here. He could push and shove all he wanted as he walked down the hallway, and neither man nor woman would stop him. He was slow, but he knew where he was going.

About a block south of the apartment, his leg began to ache. He ignored the pain, however, choosing to proceed on. Any pain was better than watching TV with those cats. He made several stops along the way, buying a coke and a bag of chips from a convenience store, and then a pack of skittles from a street vender a few minutes later. After his stomach was filled, he felt the pain subside slightly, but not much.

He was soon half a block away from the library. To his surprise, the pain had done nothing but propel him to move quicker than he had before. But the throbbing had turned to aching, and soon there was a full-on burning sensation that made his gut twist and knot itself together. The heat made his brace grow to an unbearable temperature, as if it were some sort of solar panel, drawing in every last way of sunlight that hit it. He could see red, puckered flesh where the metal touched his skin, and he winced, _That's going to hurt tomorrow._

He tried to move faster, his leg burning and aching and throbbing and stinging more every step he took. He knew he couldn't stop. His pride held his common sense in a chokehold.

_Crash!_

Hot liquid splashed against Mike's chest, searing the pale skin beneath the threadbare tank top that was now soaked thoroughly with both the scent of foreign coffee and the liquid itself. He staggered, feeling the weight of someone at least twice his size crash into his shoulder. As he tried to regain his balance, he felt a searing pain as the coffee splashed down onto his leg, scorching his still-open incision. He hissed as he crumpled to the ground, his head sheltered by arms now red and bloody from raking across the rough concrete. Lying prostrate on the ground, he allowed his body a moment of recuperation before opening his baby blues and zeroing in on the man who had knocked him over. He was handsome, in a smooth, office-dweller kind of way. He had a handkerchief out, and was angrily scrubbing at a splotch of brown liquid on the front of his jacket.

"What the hell, man?" Mike's voice was hoarse, most likely from his lack of vocalizing for the past hour. "You can't just stride around like you own the goddamn sidewalk!"

Mike was shocked when the sound of a smooth baritone filled his ears, harsh and nearly cruel in tone: "Says the boy strutting around like a peacock. Hate to break it to you kid, but I'm competent enough to look where I'm going." The man looked down at his suit, brushing a single droplet of the black coffee off of his jacket. Dark brown eyes looked down at Mike, who was practically fuming. "God damn it," The man was now glaring at the stain as best as he could in his position, before looking down at the kid. "Do you have any idea how much this suit cost?!"

Mike scoffed, "Wow. Just... wow. You shoulder check a cripple, send him to the ground, coat him thoroughly in hot coffee, then worry that you've stained your _suit?! _One you ruined yourself, because you weren't looking where you were going!?_" _he spat at the man, now through-and-through pissed. The Suit's eyes flickered down to his leg, and Mike could see him flinch softly. He would've smirked visibly had he not been burning from the coffee that now seeped into the scratches from the cats had inflicted on him earlier. With a growl, Mike bent his leg, ignoring the painful _pop_ that emitted from his joint when he did so. He clenched his eyes for a moment before standing, quivering somewhat as he steadied himself. Once upright, he looked the man in the eyes, ignoring the drink that now made its way down his arms and chest, and threatened, "If anything, _you _owe _me _new clothes. There's no way in hell this shit is washing out of my pants."

The groomed man looked over the boy. "Well aren't you a rude little boy."

"I'm not rude. I'm honest," he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. "I meant what I said, you owe me new clothes."

"Please," he rolled his eyes, "You're just some little impudent child who thinks he's too good for anyone else. Those clothes must have come from a dumpster somewhere, right? Just go dig for another pair."

"An impudent little... Oh, alright Mr..."

"Specter. Harvey Specter."

"Alright, Specter. _Harvey Specter_. If anyone here's a kid, it's you. I mean, you're the one arguing with a child_ 'who thinks he's too good for everyone else."_

If anyone else were watching the man in front of him, they would see nothing but cool composure. Mike, however, saw a slight shift in his demeanor, a snarl inching its way onto his lips, his fists white-knuckled. The man took a step forward, expecting Mike to step down. But Mike stood his ground, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"You should leave, kid. Before I go from irritated, to _livid."_

"Ohh," he gasped mockingly, his hand over his heart, like an old woman in shock, "Livid. Sounds scary!"

Harvey would have chuckled at his antics had he not been so angry at the little shit for nearly ruining his suit. He took another step forward. "Listen to me, you spoiled little brat. I have much more important things to be doing, so get out of my way, and _leave me alone._"

Mike looked at him with an amused expression. "And what will you do, _Mr. Specter, _if I don't?"

Harvey smirked. "If you don't move, I'll take you down to the NYPD right now and file for assault. I used to work for the District Attorney's Office, and believe me when I say that you don't want to know what they'd do to you. Now, I'd rather you not waste any more of my time doing that, so back off, and let me pass."

Mike hesitated, his icy eyes now slits as he stared at the man in front of him. "Wow, some turn-around there. I take it you don't want your coffee anymore?"

"Listen, you-"

"No, Mr. Specter, you listen to me," Mike hissed, standing up straighter. "You won't file _shit _against me. You know why? Because if you do, you bet your ass you're going to paying for all of my medical bills in the near future. As of five minutes ago, you pushed me over, spilled searing hot coffee on me, and then laughed as I struggled to get up, possibly injuring my recently repaired leg once more." He paused, his lip quivering. With a sniffle, he wiped his eyes as tears began to develop, "A-And not to mention the emotional pain you inflicted with your c-c-cruel words!" The tears ceased, "Any person on this street would testify in my favor. _And_," he paused for dramatic effect,"the traffic cam about twenty feet to the right of you has that evidence, as well. So, I suggest you know make sure you know what you're talking about before you spout off some bullshit."

He narrowed his eyes at Harvey, who was currently looking down at him, clearly at a loss for words. He had never met someone, _let alone a kid_, one up him in a bluff. Sure, he'd be caught, and had paid the price. Never before, though, had he been told moments after his lie escaped his mouth, that he was fill of BS. Not even as a child, had that ever happened. It was safe to say this kid was something. Good or bad, Harvey wasn't sure, but he was definitely leaning towards the pad part, at that point. As he opened his mouth, Mike spoke up again. "'Impudent little child'? Really?" Mike scoffed. "Honestly. I've been called worse by better."

And with those words, Mike shoulder checked Harvey Specter, the self-proclaimed 'Best God-Damn Closer in the City', leaving a dark brown coffee stain along the gray sleeve of his brand-new Giorgio Armani suit.

**{}-End-{}**

**...**

**Not my best, but it's something. Next chapter is nearly done. More confrontation and there's PLOT! YAAAY! **

**REMEMBER TO VOTE GOD-DAMN IT**

**REVIEW PLEASE! I MAKES ME HAPPY INSIDE!**

**If I don't get reviews, positive or negative, I might start doing that mean thing, where the author holds the chapter ransom until they have sufficient reviews. **

**TEASER FOR CHAPTER FOUR:**

There was a flash, blindingly bright and the sound of gravelly, psychotic laughter filled his ears. His body was falling, clouds above growing farther and farther away from his outstretched fingertips with each second that passed. There were giant metal buildings, towering high into the air, at the edge of his vision. He knew he was close to impact, and wondered then, why he felt at peace, when he was staring in the face of death.


	4. Chapter 4

**PLEASE READ THIS**

**I'm sorry, this isn't a new chapter.**

**You have permission to kill me.**

**I've had writers block. Yes... for several months. I know where I want to go, and have chapters written but this current chapter just won't come out. So, I'm leaving it up to you guys. I need ideas, and fast. If you give me something to work with I can have a chapter up tonight, or tomorrow. PM me Ideas or Leave reviews. Please. I'm super duper desperate.**

**Anyways. I'm begging you. I need Ideas, as fast as you can give them. Send him to school, make him die... I want every idea you have. Please.**

**So people don't whinte and tell me this is against FF rules I'm posting a short story that never made it as a story. Some girl with cancer. I don't know. Pretend it's mike.**

I used to watch raindrops. I would gaze lazily as the raindrops grew plump, devouring the smaller drops around them as if they were some sort of virus. They consumed the others, as if they had no choice but to surrender to the larger one. Then, when it grew too heavy they would race down the windowpane, their bodies leaving streaks behind them. The smaller ones would race by too, but they never won.

I wish I was big and fast like the raindrops.

I used to watch my mama cook. Her hands were fast as she flawlessly sliced and diced the vegetables and the meats. Sometimes she would let me mix the soup, or peel the onions. I never liked onions, they made my eyes water and I didn't like it. But I did it anyways. I love helping out. Anyways, it was worth it in the end. Her food was always delicious.

I wish I had enjoyed her food more.

I used to braid my hair every morning. I would thread my fingers through my long, curly blonde locks and plait them. The long tresses used to curl around my waist and tickle my hipbones. I always complained, 'cause mama never let me cut it. It took a long time to brush, and I could never keep it in one place. Little Mary at recess used to braid flowers into it.

I wish I could braid it once more time.

I wish I could get out of bed to watch the raindrops race one more time. I wish I could cut up one more onion and I wish so desperately to have my hair back. But I won't. Not for a long time. Leukemia, they call it. I don't know what it means, though. I may be smart but I'm only six, you know! They keep talking about this place called hospice. I don't know what it is but mama says I'll feel better if I go there.

I wish she was telling the truth.

I'm not going to live much longer. That much I know. I'm okay with dying, though. I don't see why anyone wants to grow up. I don't want to drive, or have a job, and I especially don't want a husband! I just want to watch the raindrops one more time. Dr. Osbourne says he can take me out to the big windows on the main floor where all the healthy people sit and wait for the dying ones. I can see a big Kentucky Derby of racing raindrops there.

I wish I would live that long.

I know I won't. I'll be stuck in this bed for as long as I have left. I'll have nothing to do but watch the saline that has condensed at the top of the IV bag form drops of sickly fluid, before racing back into the pool of chemicals that pumps through my veins, poisoning me instead of helping me.

They don't do raindrops justice.


	5. Authority

**So, here's what I'm going to do. Short chapters, fast reviews. It works better than this 'long chapter, far update shit'.**

**Do you get it? Awesome.**

**Also, I am forever indebted to those of you who have given me suggestions. Especially **awakened-earth, **who I am planning on marrying.**

**Anyways, I love you all! I'm going to stick one of my odd rules on here. How about, 15 reviews and I update before next Wednesday. Yes? WOO!**

**Disclaimer: don't own it.**

**Comment: I know mike seemed too intelligent for his age. But the kid is a mad genius. He's like a forty year old drunk in an eleven year old body.**

School wasn't the best thing or the worst thing in Mike's life. It wasn't bad, nor was it good. He had no friends, that was obvious. He preferred a pre-calculus book to a lunch buddy, and would pick 'War and Peace' over a girlfriend any day of the year. He was never good with people. All of his friends were by association. They were all Trevor's friends.

Trevor. The name made Mike's jaw tighten; his best friend and worst influence. At the young age of eleven, Mike had smoked several times before. And it wasn't really Trevor that had made him do it. He had been around the boy (who was three years older than him) and decided to try it out. It wasn't Trevor's fault he needed something to slow his mind down. He was just there, and lacked morals. He hadn't seen the kid in a few weeks and knew they were due for a nice smoke on the roof of his apartment. Unfortunately, the metal trap of death sticking out of his leg prevented him from doing so.

Speaking of the torture device, it had shrunk once more. Now, metal bars clung to his flesh, digging into his thigh, calf and ankle tightly as it forced the bone back into place. It seemed as though the closer he got to recovery, the more it hurt. It was like habanera pepper. It's painful at first, and then it progressively makes the thoughts of suicide in your head increase.

And surprisingly, the fact that he had pins and rods sticking into his leg wasn't the worst thing going on in his life. It was his third week at school and the god damned guidance counselor had already been called on him. And he hadn't done anything wrong. Mike knew that for a fact. He had gone through the past three weeks in his head three times as he sat down in the plastic chair outside the office, his leg swung haphazardly over onto the chair next to him, his other foot on the ground and back pressed against the seats of two other chairs. Hell, if they were going to make him wait there for an hour and a half, he was going to get comfortable.

He wasn't comfortable, though. His shirt clung to his wrists and his neck, his tie suffocated him. He had long since unbuttoned his shirt, rolled the sleeves up, and undid hid tie, opting to tie it to the top of his ratty backpack. His pants snagged on his brace and the Black and white T-shirt he had borrowed from Trevor and never returned was too big, causing the sleeves to curl around his shoulders, making it hard for him to pillow his hands behind his head, under the blazer he had carelessly crushed up as a pillow.

His eyes had just closed when there was an uncomfortable cough from his right side. He let out a sigh, opening his eyes to look sharply at the cleanly dressed woman. Mike swung his legs over onto the ground, wincing slightly as his leg clunked down with the weight of his brace. Rising to his feet, he grabbed his bag, stuffed his blazer in it, then slung it over his thin shoulder. The woman shifted, before beckoning him inside, her eyes looking down at his leg as though it was a fifth limb.

She moved towards him as he passed, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder, as though she was afraid he would fall. He shrugged the hand off, plopping down ungracefully in one of the seats, his bag falling to the floor behind him a little more gently. Crystal blue eyes watched as the woman walked stiffly over to the other side of the desk. She wasn't the prettiest, with saggy skin, pale, thin lips, narrow eyes and ratty hair pulled up into a pristine bun. She walked like she had a rod up her ass and seemed to dress like it to. Oh, how Mike hated the anal retentive.

The woman smiled thinly at him, as though she was feigning happiness, "Hello, Michael."

"Hello, lady," he replied in the same tone, tilting his head to the side and adding a few eyelash bats while he was at it. The woman seemed to grit her teeth as she smiled.

"My name is Mrs. Shapiro," she corrected, as though the attitude was to be expected.

_Who the hell would marry her? _He fought down a smirk, "And I'm Michael. Now that we know each other we should get on with it, shouldn't we? You don't want to keep me from my dreadfully easy clases all day, do you?"

Well," she said, opening the manila file on her desk, looking over the first page, "You probably know why you're here."

"Well," he sighed, "I may be intelligent, but I'm not a mind reader."

The woman didn't answer him for a minute and a half. She looked through his file, his past grades, his four suspensions, his expulsion, his detentions and what looked like medical records. She seemed to raise one of her penciled in eyebrows as she read on. She looked back up at him, her dull blue eyes meeting his brighter ones. His eyebrow rose, like hers, except his was one of inquiry.

"You have a..." she cleared her throat, "busy... school history to say the least. Three schools? Quite a feat."

"Oh," he drawled, looking up at the ceiling, "I try. I really do."

"But that is not why you are here, Mr. Ross. Many of your teachers noticed you don't have many... friends. Would you like to tell me why?"

"I'll pass."

"It wasn't a question, Mr. Ross."

Blue eyes clashed, youth vs. authority. He bit his lip, before shrugging, knowing he would have to answer her eventually, "people are stupid."

"Oh?"

"Stick me with university students and I'll be best friends with them all. But unfortunately, I have to deal with children. Children who don't know the difference between who and whom."

"Michael, I know you're a gifted student, but can you at least make an effo-"

"An effort? No. I'm not going through that again."

"Michael," she sighed, fighting the coldness in her tone, "I know you're a smart kid, and I know you don't like to lower yourself to other's standards, but you sometimes have to. You need friends, Mike. They're"

"Why do I need friends?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he bounced his good leg, "Why do I need friends?"

"Because," she paused, "They can help you."

"With what?"

"Well, if you don't get something in class,"

"Bullshit. I finished reading all the textbooks a week ago."

"Your language is unacceptable," she warned.

"My apologies, your highness. But continue."

"Group projects-"

"That I finish by myself anyways."

"You wouldn't if you had friends," she pointed out, looking victorious.

"Oh, I'm not saying I finish them without a partner. I voluntarily do all the work. I like getting A's."

"Mike, I don't care if you want to work on projects on your own, but every child your age needs a friend or two."

He did have a friend, he wanted to point out, Trevor was a friend. But instead, he vomited. It was sticky, smelly, disgusting and chunky. It hit in the face and dripped out of Mike's mouth. It stung his nose and stained the desk. It was colorful and repulsive at the same time. Yes, the worst type of vomit. Word vomit.

"You think I haven't tried?" he snapped, "This isn't my first metaphorical rodeo, Mrs. Shapiro. I used to be the most popular kid in school. I could sit with anyone I wanted to. All I had to do is do their homework for them. But you know what? I got sick of making _myself_ sound stupid so _my_ work sounded like theirs. And I'm not willing to make myself sound like an idiot anymore. So, if you don't mind I'm going to go back to class, because at least my Algebra teacher doesn't worry about my _voluntary_ lack of social life."

Mike had never been good with authority. He knew the laws and followed them when he needed to. He wasn't stupid and didn't need to be treated like he was. He knew he crossed the line but he wasn't walking back over. That was like waving the white flag.

So instead the eleven year old stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder and walked out the door, flipping the counselor his middle finger as he left.


End file.
